Disclaimer: Batman © DC comics
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The Heart
Part 01 —
love and me
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"In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter—bitter," he answered;
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."
In The Desert by Stephen Crane
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It starts with...
Omens.
It's not the people's fault; it's the mob, the madmen, the masked. Gotham is like an open sewer system of crime and corruption—living there makes one rather superstitious. Horseshoes above bedroom doors, picking up fallen pennies, throwing a pinch of spilled salt over their shoulder, putting the right shoe on first. Small things that keep them from going as mad as the lot on Arkham.
A lonely light flickers at a deserted beach.
"Fuck! Next time, bring a better flashlight, asshole. And remind me why we're here again."
Three construction workers stroll along the shoreline. Their waders protect them from crushed beer bottles, seaweed and general litter.
"Some boys saw a face in the water. MILFs begged us to take a look," the second one answers, shoving cold hands into his pockets. "Probably just a plastic bag. No balls on kids these days." They share a laugh and a story about the old days, the good days, the days without taxes or wives.
"...Yo, bastards, I think it's over here." They pause, conversation forgotten.
Right underneath the water's surface lies something pale and wet and rotten.
The flashlight interrupts, flickering off and on and off again. When it dies for the seventeenth time, it actually dies. Thick, sausage fingers fumbles with the batteries. "Fuck, it's not workin'."
"Give it up." One of them lights a lighter, folding his finger to resemble a cover against the weather. "Here." He brings it to the water, watching the reflection. Closer and closer and closer. It's is almost unrecognisable. Almost. But the rotten white and smeared red shown on GCN is never forgotten.
"Oh my god. It's his face."
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Omens.
"...third week with this insane heat wave in Gotham, and it looks like it's getting warmer..."
"Turn that shit down."
Hastily, a senescent beggar lowers the radio's volume. A coin spirals through the air, clinking as it hits the insides of a cup. Booze splashes and the beggar curses.
The two men continue on walking through the dirtiest, darkest of allies to get to the boss. The one on the left is only visiting because the blood test came out positive. He's the dad, not her bf. She hadn't taken that abortion because she that guy in Italy forbade it. ('Though it ain't nothin' Catholic about the way she spreads her legs,' he thinks.) And child support isn't cheap these days. Thank god—her god—for Marshall, a fellow high school delinquent, and his last minute offer.
"Didn't think you'd take me up on it, Charles," Marshall begins. He inhales the fume from his cancer stick. "I'm gonna give you some advice 'cos you still seem like a decent enough fellow. Better listen too, I'm not the person to repeat myself. Okay, three ground rules..."
As he speaks, they walk into a gypsy store. The shelves are full of herbal mixes and spirit water. Lady behind the counter doesn't spare them a glance. Behind a lamé curtain, Marshall knocks three times on a brick wall and somehow opens a metal door. It leads to a long, barely lit hall. Marshall puts on an evil clown mask with a long nose, sad expression and plump lips. Charles shrugs and inwardly repeats Marshall's advice.
("One: don't make comments. This isn't fucking middle school. This one guy, Gabriel, called the boss a fag and, uh, well.")
What greets them is an aquarium. Inside are colourful stones, sea plants, tropical fish and a corpse. Ironic how his name was Gabriel; he looks like an angel. His arms are extended in welcome and his skin is bluish and nibbled on by fish. His cheeks are carved open in a frozen Cheshire grin. Right foot is sawn off.
Marshall elbows Charles to get him to stop staring and gestures to the end of the room.
Several surveillance screens are stabled on top of each other, all of them showing different things. In one, a host on an entertainment program claps in extreme excitement when the contestant fails. Another shows an obese mime performing an act. In a third, a woman is repeatedly stabbed by someone in a pig costume. In the one next to that, three men fuck on the bed, and the one underneath is a National Geographic documentary about bats. All the sound is muted.
Beneath the televisions is an armchair. A blue, tattered quilt hangs over the armrest.
"Boss," Marshall says.
One row at the time, the screens show static. The quilt quivers. The chair turns halfway around. Not all of the face is shadowed; what one can see grotesque. Skinless. A deathly white arm rummages around in the chair, and picks up a lipstick. Ruby red. Fancy brand. The Joker applies it.
"Did y'know that, uh, a bat circling a house means someone's gonna die?" The mouth stretch awkwardly, tongue draping across red muscle. "Or every single body," a glance towards the aquarium, "in the house, really. Did you know that, henchclowns?"
("Two: don't draw attention to yourself. Keep the answers short and precise.")
Charles has no intention of breaking the second rule. "No boss," the two henchmen answer in unison.
"Then I sure hope nobody followed ya. So who's the new guy?" The faceless man stands up and walks towards them. The thinner light rays in the dark are like a like a pedestrian crossing, his face is visible for milliseconds at the time. On him hang tattered remains of a suit. He looks like he's crawled out of the sewers somewhere. "No no no, don't tell me your name, I'm far to forget—ful. Full of forget. Full. Hah!"
There is something decidedly hollow about his laugh.
"I miss him. A lot."
("Three: don't ever mention the Bat.")
"The Batman?"
The face contorts into something awful.
"...Did y'know that to see a, uh, bat during daytime means a long journey?" He points at Charles with a cracked, red nail. "He'll do nicely."
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Omens.
An office door slams open.
In storms a very upset nurse.
"Dr. Arkham, you have a walk-in."
Jeremiah Arkham looks up from his desk, glasses reflecting the lamp light. He'd been engrossed in a novel his aunt in law sent him. He ruffles some papers—pretending to have been preoccupied—and scowls over his glasses, "Thought I said I didn't want to be disturbed."
"You don't understand," she breathes, inhales, and splutter, "It's him."
There's the sound of a chair falling backwards.